A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. They traveled to distant places, had an apartment in Constantinople and a villa in Paris. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would for years to come. ’ He shifted unguardedly, and hissed a breath, wincing. When she finished her last cadence, Carolyn and Thomas begged her to play encores.
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